


The Last Place I Saw You

by bentsage



Series: Strange Things Like Mercy [2]
Category: Far Cry 5, Far Cry: New Dawn
Genre: Bonding as a "family", Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:41:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27107395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bentsage/pseuds/bentsage
Summary: In the hot, early fall of 2027, Kim finds herself up after hours by herself.  Well, not exactly -- after all, John Seed has turned insomnia into his own personal domain, which extends all the way down to their living room.  Thankfully, his new leaf has been thoroughly turned over, and he would rather help her than argue about her buddy system.  With any luck, John's knowledge of Projects supplies might just help them survive the winter.
Relationships: Kim Rye & John Seed, Kim Rye/Nick Rye, Nick Rye & John Seed
Series: Strange Things Like Mercy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1786354
Comments: 27
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HEY GUYS WHAT IS UP, god does anyone know why so many Youtubers start shit like that???? anyway.
> 
> it's been like 2 months or something but i'm back on my bullshit and i'm bringing it to you guys in case you want to be on my shit too! this is a 3-part story (looking at about 20k here) that was meant to be 2 or 3 standalone stories. the theme ended up being prevelant enough that these guys had to go together, which is just fine by me! i had a lot of fun working on kim and john's dynamics, so i hope you guys enjoy that!!!
> 
> all the usual notes apply: if you enjoy, please feel free to leave a comment! i love kudos, comments, likes, reblogs, those moments where you bookmark my fic to come back to but maybe you wont -- all that shit is good with me!!! i think that's all i gotta say about it, sooo why don't we just get on with it

Kim's dreams are normally composed of fleeting images in dark, monochrome colors. They're howling-wind nightmares or ethereal moments of peace, but they're short-lived and she's always disconnected from them. She hasn't had a real dream in probably nine years. She used to miss them, before John Seed reappeared with all of his night terrors, just in time to remind her of how good she has it. Now, she's glad that the most she has to contest with is a looming sense of dread that fades almost as soon as she wakes up.

But tonight, Kim is a long way away from all of that. She's standing at the kitchen sink in her childhood home, which is in full summer swing. The rosemary plant her mom keeps on the sill is in full bloom, thick green spikes dotted with blue puffball flowers. Beyond it, the Canadian sky is seawater green, and Kim marvels at the fluffy clouds drifting through the unnatural color. They seem to be floating by much faster than the still air outside would imply. It should rattle her, confuse her, but before that realization sinks in, her mom's voice distracts her away.

"Do you really think he's the one?" she asks, as skeptically as she had all those years ago when Kim first decided to move to Montana. Her mother had liked Nick, of course, because he was a likable guy, but Kim had known from the start that her parents were worried about her. They'd worried about her moving to a red state, about her trusting a man she'd seen a handful of times since they'd met. They hadn't understood the idea of purple pockets or internet dating, and while they supported Kim's love of rifle showmanship, they'd never trusted Nick owning more than three guns.

"What's the point, is all I'm asking," Kim's mom laughs in response to Kim's unspoken comment. "It seems strange to _collect_ weapons..."

"Mom, he _hunts_!" she chides. "And anyway, he isn't the worst one out there."

"That's exactly what I worry about," her mom says. "What if something bad were to happen? His family is gone, and we'll be so far away..."

Kim sighs, the words stinging more than they should. The aqua colored sky begins to churn outside, the light filtering through a strange red haze. Inside, the sunlight reflects off the white counters, nearly blinding Kim.

"I'll be okay," she says, reciting an amalgamation of all her old defenses as her eyes readjust. "There are a lot of good people out there. They rely on each other a whole lot more than we do here."

"I worry about you, Kimiko. That's all." Her mother sighs sadly. "You'll understand when you have kids of your own."

"But mom..."

Kim tries to tell her that she already _has_ a kid, but she can't muster up the words. After all, shouldn't she know? Wouldn't Kim have visited? Wouldn't she have brought Carmina into this very kitchen, all the surfaces glowing with light, and introduced them? Wouldn't her mom have been there when Carmina was born?

"It's unseasonably warm, isn't it," her dad remarks at the table. He's sitting there with a magazine as if he'd been there the whole time. He, like the rest of the room, glows from the inside, as though a flashlight were shining through his skin. It shines through the wood of the table, through her mom's curious smile, until Kim has to turn her face away. The room grows hotter and hotter, and in the far-off whistling wind she hears the first lonesome wail of an air-raid siren beginning to pick up. There's a blinding burst of light and howling wind, and Kim lifts her hands to her face, desperate not to look directly at the blast —

The bedroom is dark, warm and humid. At first, Kim doesn't know where she is, struggling to sit up, desperate to run, until all at once reality comes crashing back into focus. It doesn't help that she's pinned beneath Nick's arm and Carmina's full dead-sleeping weight.

Normally, moving would be out of the question. But Kim doesn't want this dream clinging to her memory, and she desperately wants to put some space between her and the nuclear glow of her mother's smile. Hell, maybe it isn't the dream at all — maybe it's the heat that's making lying here unbearable. Maybe it's the extra weight pinning her down, or a panic attack waiting in the wings — whatever it is, she needs to get up and run from it. As she worms her way out from underneath her family, Kim can feel the pressure building behind her eyes, fueled by the need to jog out the tension that will soon become unbearable. She needs to exercise the nightmare away before it sticks around and ruins the rest of her night.

It's probably already too late for that. The back of Kim's eyes are itchy with tears as she struggles to get free. She's already memorized her mom's smile, trapped forever in radioactive amber, and that alone is enough trauma to fuel ten more terrible dreams.

Nick and Carmina remain peacefully asleep, even as Kim extracts herself from the bed. That's good — the last thing she needs to do is worry Nick, whose own sleeping habits have just started to even out. He'll try to keep her company, and they'll just wind up keeping each other up, which wasn't ideal back in the day and definitely isn't ideal _now_.

Even though Carmina sleeps like the dead and Nick isn't likely to hear her, Kim is careful to watch out for the creakiest steps as she heads downstairs. Sunrise isn't for a few hours yet, but Kim isn't going to let that stop her from insomnia-pacing around her own home. It used to be that Kim would jog laps on the runway to clear her head, but that isn't going to work nowadays. She still wants to, of course; she's desperate to step out into the relatively cool night air and run herself ragged enough to pass out again, but that's out of the question. She's not about to break her own rule.

It's only once Kim is downstairs that she starts to relax, lighting one of the candles left out on the table. The light is just barely enough to see by, and Kim struggles to find something to clean up or organize in the half-dark. All of the coping mechanisms that got her through eight years of bunker living have fallen flat in the face of the apocalypse, but that doesn't keep her from trying them over and over again. Some techniques are more adaptable, but it isn't like she can dig into reorganizing the hangar for Nick at... _whatever_ time it is now. Not without somebody catching her breaking her own rules about going outside alone.

If she had _any_ books worth reading, she could throw herself into that, but she can't bear the manuals and children's books right now. Maybe if there was a radio station she could listen to... but no, she wouldn't want to risk burning out the radio after everything Nick and John went through to fix it. There's not going to be another Hail Mary when it comes to that kind of repair.

Her mom would probably use this time to make a series of endless lists. Grocery lists, to-do lists, lists of pros and cons for buying new appliances or inviting Kim's awful step-grandmother to her wedding... there was nothing that her mom couldn't organize into a column of bullet points or check-boxes. Kim could probably do with a few lists herself, but where is she supposed to get the paper? And even if a supply list wouldn't be a waste of resources, where would she go to _fill_ it? It's going to be a while before they can pick up flour from the farmer's market again, that's for sure.

Well, at least wasting some paper will keep her mind busy. There's too much stuff they need, and she's going to drive herself crazy trying to remember all of it. Anyway, they've been using decades-old junk mail to prop up the radio desk — it can't be wasted if it was already trash, right?

She's careful in her search for a decent piece of mail, not wanting to tip the radio over as she jimmies a yellowed envelope from under the desk. It's only once she's back at the table with a worn-down nub of a pencil that she finds herself hesitating. After all, what is she supposed to write? What could they reasonably expect to get out here, with no supply chain to rely on? Everything that comes to mind is laughably improbable at best.

It doesn't really matter, though, does it? They're probably not going to be able to find anything besides what they can hunt and grow for themselves, so any food she writes down will be wishful thinking. John had offered to help their scavenging efforts, but it isn't likely they'll find working walkie-talkies or a new car. People who have been above ground longer than the Ryes have already taken over key resource points, and they'll be hard-pressed to give up things without a fair trade. And until they can reliably communicate with one another, trading is going to be nearly impossible. One day, maybe, they'll have trading posts and reliable supply chains, but like other pieces of their fractured society, that's not coming for a long time yet.

Staring at a blank piece of paper is worse than writing something stupid down, and so Kim quickly scribbles the word _flour_ across the top of the envelope. She can't imagine that's going to be a reasonable expectation for a while, but at least it's on paper — and it's outlandish enough that it encourages her to continue, her thoughts darting between impossible dreams and honest reality. _Salt_ , she thinks might not be quite as hard to find. _Sugar,_ probably impossible. For now, they can hope for _honey_ instead.

It goes on like that, growing more abstract as Kim lets herself dream. _Milk, eggs, bread,_ _twinkies_ _, meat grinder, hamburgers, tomatoes, grains (seeds), grill (charcoal), gas, gas canisters (storage), duct tape, insulation foam (spray, sheet), toilet cleaner, toilet, hot water, plumbing,_ _bathtub!_ , _tarp, doors, ammunition, floodlights, security system, cans + string (security)_ —

Her flow is interrupted by a soft, distant thud somewhere upstairs. Kim listens for a few tense seconds, waiting to hear boots on the roof, the hiss of a walkie-talkie, or the slide-click of a gun being cocked. Without the cult, those fears go unrealized, and Kim slumps tiredly into her seat. She's just as paranoid about armed cultists tonight as she is about wild animals, although she's sure that's just her nightmare talking. Eden's Gate is nowhere near the threat it used to be.

The relief is short-lived, as is her solitude, when she hears an upstairs door click shut, followed by the sound of quick footsteps on the landing. The house is too old for any real attempt at stealth, but John tries to avoid the worst offending stairs on his way down. He only realizes Kim is there when he notices the candlelight, coming to an abrupt stop on the last step, one hand clutching the banister tight.

He's sweaty and out of sorts as he wipes his limp hair out of his face. "Oh," he rasps. "Kim."

He's surprised to see her. Kim should be surprised, too — it's one thing to know that John wanders the house at night, but it's another to see it happen in real-time. Honestly, she's barely phased by his appearance. John's sleep schedule has been bunker-erratic ever since Nick brought him home, and no amount of diurnal activity has managed to change it. If anything, Kim suspects he gets less sleep now than he did underground. It isn't for lack of trying, she's sure, but this isn't the first time she's heard him stumbling around in the dark. It's just the first time she's been in the same boat.

"Late night?" she asks.

John struggles once more with the hair in his eyes before giving up. "Just needed some air," he rasps, minding his volume. "Some water."

"Don't mind me," she replies, surprising herself with her own ambivalence. Knowing he moves around while they're sleeping is one thing, but seeing it should be upsetting. It should bother her when he avoids creaky floorboards on his way to help himself to their fresh water. It should make her angry to see him using their resources; at the very least, it _should_ have upset her back when it began normalizing. But, honestly, it hadn't. Kim had just been relieved to see John acting like a person, and not just a haunted shell.

John wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, regarding Kim with deep uncertainty that Kim mostly makes out from his hunched shoulders and tense posture. He tries to hide just how lost he is, but Kim never misses it when he slips. It's not that she's sympathetic towards him, exactly, but she knows just enough about his history to _want_ to pity him.

He doesn't speak, not even after the silence stretches out. Maybe he's waiting for her to make the first move?

The thought almost makes her laugh, but she still cuts him some slack. "Can't sleep either, huh?" she asks.

"Hardly ever," John replies, although he clearly isn't looking for reassurance. He takes a step away from the kitchen, hovering in the nebulous space between the table and the stairs. He's usually quick to leave Kim alone — quicker than he is with Nick, anyway — and so she appreciates the fact that he doesn't run now.

His voice cracks on its low pitch as he haltingly asks, "What are you doing?"

For just a second, Kim imagines giving John the cold shoulder and telling him it's none of his business. But the thought fades as quickly as it comes; it's replaced by the knowledge that John is just as dependent on the family's supplies as she is. Anything she needs, he'll also need. And besides, she's almost positive he'd been in control of the cult's supplies, which means he might have an idea of what they should realistically be looking for. He would know what the cult had planned to do, and she could probably translate that into useful advice.

"Just making a list," she sighs. It sounds stupid enough to make her wince, and she concedes with a joke, "You know, for the next time we're at Wal-Mart."

John huffs in amusement and approaches the table. Now that she's got an audience, Kim wants nothing more to do with the list, and so she pushes towards him before slumping back into her chair. Instead of the quick, distracted glance she had been expecting, John leans over to read it in full. The longer he reads, the more embarrassed Kim is of her late-night daydreaming, but he finishes with the list before she can grab it back.

"Some of these are... more manageable than others," he says, using the same kind of diplomacy he utilizes whenever Nick makes a particularly dumb comment.

"Uh, _yeah_ ," she says, embarrassed even if she isn't surprised. "I know. It was just... taking up space in my head. I needed to write it down, otherwise, I'm going to be up all night."

Kim runs her hand through her hair, waiting for John to retreat as quickly as he'd arrived. Instead, John rereads the list once more. Kim can see his amusement much more plainly as he leans into the candlelight. It highlights the deep bags under his eyes as well, but who isn't carrying that particular mark of exhaustion these days?

"Ammunition isn't as high on the list as I'd imagined," he comments.

"We're okay on bullets for now," she replies. "And it's not like there's much to spare."

Whether or not that satisfies John, Kim isn't sure. He only hums in response, eyes roaming down the paper.

"I see you didn't bother to add more guns."

"We don't need more guns," Kim insists, although it's not strictly true. She's just hesitant to overwhelm the house with firearms. They've been getting on just fine with what they have — any more, and they might turn into a target themselves. One day, sure, they'll need to find something for Carmina to carry on her own, but that day is a long, _long_ way away.

She doesn't need to explain herself to anyone, let alone John Seed, but as he watches her and waits for more, she feels compelled to justify herself. "I don't think we're going to find spare guns _or_ ammunition just lying around, and I'm not about to take them by force. We've managed just fine with what we have."

"For now," John points out. "Things could change. It won't stay this calm forever."

"Why not?" Kim retorts, feeling childish and petulant as soon as the words leave her mouth. "Why do you even care? _You're_ certainly not getting armed."

John clicks his tongue against his teeth. "It's not that," he says, only to abruptly roll over with a muttered, "Never mind."

If John thinks he can avoid the conversation that easily, he has another thing coming. "No, what is it?" she asks.

"It's nothing," he sighs, as if arrogantly dismissing her will keep Kim from pushing. When Kim only frowns unhappily back at him, he reluctantly relents. "Joseph had said taking your weapons was the only way we could ensure you wouldn't use them after the Collapse. And if we didn't lock them away, it would be all you would look for." He stares at the list, although Kim imagines his thoughts are about fifty miles away. "It's stunning how wrong he was about everything. But there are reminders everywhere."

John rarely speaks about Joseph; Kim hasn't heard him broach the subject of his own volition before. The only person who ever talks to him about his brother is Jerome, and those conversations are private and short. Having John bring him up with almost no needling feels like a step forward, even if it's only a small one. Even though John is anxious saying Joseph's name.

It's so easy to forget how much control Joseph had over John. Kim has to make a concentrated effort now and again to remind herself that Joseph hadn't only brainwashed normal, desperate people, but his own family. She can't imagine doing anything to Carmina or Nick that would turn them into the angry, anxious mess John had been even _before_ the Collapse. Not even if it meant they would always do what they were told and would trust her implicitly. She couldn't bear it if Nick ever talked about her the way John talks about Joseph. It's late enough that Kim finds herself wondering how Joseph can even sleep at night.

"It's stupid," John says, taking Kim's contemplative silence as disapproval. "I should have known better."

He inhales, letting out a shaky breath, and closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them, they're suspiciously shiny in the candlelight. It sparks a genuine pang of sympathy in Kim, but there's nothing she can say or do to help him. Nothing she's done so far has made an impact.

"Some of this is reasonable enough," John says, desperately trying to redirect the conversation back to the list. It's an obvious, flat-footed attempt to avoid a tender spot in his psyche, but Kim is willing to let it slide.

"Sure, _eventually_. But we're a long way off from hot baths and backyard barbecues, much less flour and sugar."

"Those are... _less_ reasonable," he admits, dragging his finger across one of the harder to come by items. Still, he isn't nearly as deterred as she is. "But not everything is impossible to come by. Insulation, for one. Tarp, duct tape. Components like that should be easy enough to find." He taps his finger against the envelope. "And there still places to investigate. Root cellars nobody bothered to touch. Caches you never found. Things hidden in places you wouldn't know to look, especially if you weren't in the Project."

Frowning, Kim rereads a few of the items upside-down from her side of the table. "It's been almost nine years," Kim points out, reluctant to get her hopes up so easily. "Isn't it more likely that everything good has already been discovered?"

Still... John's mentioned secret Eden's Gate supplies before. Given the size of the project and how long they were operating in the county, it's not _impossible_ that some of their hidden stashes haven't been found yet. And they were planning for the apocalypse, right? They'd likely have saved things that could last for a long time. John isn't wrong — more ammunition and more weapons _would_ be helpful. At the very least, they could help arm other survivors.

"It wouldn't hurt to have a look, I guess," Kim relents after thinking it over. "How good is your memory?"

That earns her a rare, quiet chuckle from John. "Middling to poor," he admits, "Although if I had a map, it would help. It would make it easier to mark what I remember."

"To think, it only took nine years and an apocalypse for you to finally hand over the intel."

John huffs, but his response is only mildly offended. "Do you want what I have to offer, or not?"

"Don't be like that," Kim says, placating him with a smile. "It would be a big help. It'll help me sleep better, anyway."

It seems there's more on John's mind than Kim teasing him, since he takes the non-apology and moves on without a fight. "Jacob had caches buried for after the Reaping," he says. "They'll most likely be weapons, but he was... hard to read. It could be that he stored survival equipment in one. There were a few in the valley, but most of them would be in the mountains."

Kim shakes her head at that. "As far as I've heard, nobody's made it very far north. And the stories I _have_ heard aren't good. The dam broke, so a lot of the area is flooded, and supposedly the radiation is still pretty bad."

John hums briefly as he considers the facts. He leans contemplatively over the list, and for a moment Kim wonders if this was a common occurrence for him before the Collapse. How many late nights did he spend bent over a map while his brothers watched and waited for his decisions? She has to suspect it was a lot, because this is the first time she's seen John look even remotely confident.

That confidence is clear in his voice as he remarks defiantly, "I suppose the valley will do until we get airborne again. Let flooding stop us _then_."

"Oh, okay," Kim laughs, checking her volume before she lets her amusement wake up the rest of her family. "You are _just_ like Nick. Neither of you are going to give up until you get back in the sky, huh?"

"Exactly," John replies. "I won't trust anybody else to do it. Realistically, a helicopter would be the best option..."

"Oh, right," Kim chuckles. " _Realistically_."

John taps accusingly at the list and raises an eyebrow at her. "Less realistic than hot water and iodized table salt?"

If Kim didn't know better, she might think that John is actually teasing her. He normally saves that kind of attitude for Nick, who prefers arguing through and around problems. Kim, on the other hand, rarely has the energy to deal with avoidance tactics, and so she tends to demand his sincerity. Thankfully, the liminal time of just-about-three has softened her stance on the matter.

"Okay," she relents with a smile. "Sure. Might as well add helicopters to the list." It _would_ be a pretty big get for them, all things considered. And anyway, John's right — Kim wouldn't trust flying in a plane jury-rigged together by anyone _other_ than Nick.

But that's a resource that will come in the nebulous future, and Kim's too realistic to worry years in advance right now. There are more pressing concerns to deal with, first — like food, water and security. Any caches John can find will at least fulfill _one_ of those priorities, although Kim can't imagine the cult storing anything other than ammunition and weapons. But even if the caches don't pan out, they might find valuable scrap, like logs for firewood, furniture they can re-purpose, or even old survivalist caches that nobody thought to dig up after the world ended. And now that there are four of them, Kim won't feel so uncomfortable when Nick wants to drive to the middle of nowhere looking for supplies.

Kim sighs with relief, feeling a weight roll off her back that she hadn't been trying to remove. "Things will be a lot easier if you can help us with supplies. And I'll feel better about Nick going out if he has somebody to watch his back."

John pulls the same face he usually makes when someone implies they trust him. Kim could ignore it — after all, John doesn't need to _believe_ they trust them for it to be true. Too bad for him, it's too late at night for her to turn a blind eye. "Oh, get over it," she tells him, unable to help a lopsided smile at his offended scowl. "I seriously doubt you're planning on murdering us at this point. And I know Nick is smart enough to knock the crap out of you if he thinks you've changed your mind."

"I won't," John immediately replies.

Kim believes him, if only because there's nobody left for John to rely on other than them. "Good. Because if I can trust you, that means I won't worry about Nick when he decides to go farther than town. It means we can spend more meaningful time with Carmina, too. Anyway, Nick likes bossing you around, and you like being bossed around, so everybody wins."

John ducks his head, embarrassed, but Kim laughs to let him know she's only teasing. "Seriously," she says, relenting for his benefit, "It does help. It's good to have somebody else to rely on."

"I... want to be helpful," John replies, although Kim suspects that he might be confusing his wants and needs again. It's not quite a compulsion anymore, but even John's most heated attempts to argue about a job end with him rolling over quick. He hasn't outright refused to do something, and Kim doesn't think he ever will, if only to prove to himself one more time that he might actually be capable of change.

It might get annoying one day, but for now, Kim can respect his intense desire to make amends. She just wishes he would accept some form of gratitude or praise in return, to make it less awkward on her end.

Kim rests her hands momentarily on the tabletop, tapping her fingers briefly against the wood. "Okay," she softly declares, "I think I'm going to try to get back to sleep." Whatever she winds up dreaming about now, she's pretty sure it won't be the same awful nightmare again — and that's at least partially because of John's intervention. She figures it's worth telling him as much. "You made a pretty good distraction, so thanks."

He nods immediately in response. "Of course," he replies, momentarily bewildered as he checks Kim's expression for signs of sarcasm or annoyance. His posture relaxes as Kim stands, although Kim imagines his relief is temporary. He's pretty good at working himself up into anxious frenzies — staying out of them is another matter entirely.

"Try to get some sleep yourself, okay?" Kim suggests.

There's no way John means it when he says, "I will," but at least he's willing to placate her instead of getting mad at her being concerned in the first place.

"And try not to wake up Carmina."

John nods affirmatively. Kim's positive that he'll sneak outside once she's gone upstairs, but at least he's waiting patiently for her to leave. If it weren't for her returning exhaustion, Kim might've used him as an excuse to do her own late-night workout, but it'll have to do to merely turn a blind eye to him edging around her rule about going out after dark alone. Kim and Nick have both been woken up by the exterior doors, but John never goes beyond the planters out back, and he always closes up when he comes back in. Kim could call him out on it, but... well, it seems like he needs the freedom.

Kim says goodnight and is mildly surprised when John returns it without any lingering sarcasm. He _must_ be pretty tired, but that's not really a surprise. Hopefully, he'll try to take some of her concern to heart, or at least pretend for her sake.

Although Carmina is definitely still asleep when Kim returns to the bedroom, Nick is watching her with bleary-eyed curiosity. He waits until she's closed the door to speak up, and even then it's a dull, quiet whisper.

"Everything okay?" he asks.

He doesn't mind waiting for Kim to creep back to bed before she answers. "It is," she tells him, gratefully crawling into bed as he opens his arms for her. He folds his arms over her shoulders, letting her wiggle into a comfortable spot before she explains in a whisper. "I needed to move around, and John came downstairs. That's all."

"Hope he wasn't a creep," Nick mumbles into her hair. Kim sighs laughingly into his collarbone, which is already sticking to her cheek with sweat. There's no way she's going to be wrapped up in Nick's arms all night, not when it's this hot, but she'll appreciate it while she's got it.

"Not yet," Kim says. "Just talking about supplies." She presses a kiss to Nick's shoulder and whispers, "We'll talk about it in the morning."

Nick hums happily into Kim's hair. "Sounds good to me," he mumbles. The less they talk about John Seed, the better, after all. Especially right now, when they're tangled up in bed with their daughter snoring next to them; there's no room for serious conversation, and there's absolutely no room for John. There's no space for the nightmares that woke her, either; as Kim falls asleep, Nick's hand tangled up in her hair, she thankfully forgets everything save for a warm, melancholy amber glow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Nick go looking for supplies in all the hot places.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> usually i leave notes but i don't really got anything to say so uhhh... this is the big chunky chapter, next chapter is short again. i hope you enjoy this and if you do, i'd love to hear your thoughts :) ok that's all have a good day

John had known offering his help was a mistake as soon as he'd done it. Suggesting that he knew where hidden supplies might be was obviously setting himself up for colossal failure, but he'd had to think on his feet. He hadn't wanted to build up Kim's hopes, or encourage her to talk to Nick about it. All he'd wanted was for her to go back upstairs so he could sneak outside without her haranguing him for it. Then he'd seen how much it had reassured her, and the obligation to follow through had set in. Now, no matter how obvious a failure the endeavor may become, he has no choice but to push forward with the plan.

That's why John doesn't protest when Nick suggests they go sooner than later. He probably should, because it's been too hot to dig for the past week already, but the sooner he disappoints Kim, the _less_ disappointment he'll incur. None of them will have time to blow things out of proportion. The cache he has in mind had been buried by Jacob a little under a mile outside of town, in some unused patch of farmland. They'll be back before sundown, and the sting of returning empty-handed won't last too unbearably long.

Of course, when the morning comes to go look for the cache, John can barely manage to drag himself out of bed. If he'd thought yesterday's heat was unbearable, then he doesn't know _what_ he'd call today. The sun has barely risen and it's already baked his room, leaving him tangled up in sweaty sheets. Summer has always been John's least favorite month, even before the Collapse, but there has to be something _wrong_ for them to be going through a second week of a heatwave. At least blaming the nuclear apocalypse for their shitty weather makes him feel slightly better.

He can't tell if he managed to sleep, but from the way his head aches as he slowly rises, John is willing to bed he failed that task yet again. God, what he wouldn't give for some fucking Ambien. Even a good, stiff drink would help, but John's shot tolerance hasn't recovered from his last encounter for post-apocalyptic liquor, so that's out of the question. Just his luck — he's going to have to suffer a whole day around Nick without much keeping him upright.

Even in the relatively cool shade downstairs, John finds himself blinking sweat out of his eyes. It's a struggle for him to focus on anything besides how miserable he is. If only he could blame it on trauma — but no, he's just _never_ handled prolonged heat well. Montana might not have Georgia's overwhelming humidity, but the temperature climbs twenty degrees higher, and summer out here never seems to fucking _end_. That, combined with his pitiful heat tolerance, is probably why he's running on maybe two hours of sleep.

There are a handful of raw carrots on his plate, next to a few strips of old jerky that even Nick is leaving for last. It's going to be a long, _long_ day, and he's not going to be getting much else until dinner, but John can't scrounge up any sort of appetite. He hasn't been hungry for what feels like days now, and his stomach barely tolerates anything more than water.

"Hey," Carmina asks, leaning into John's peripheral vision, "Can I have that?"

John doesn't know which part of his meal she's eying, but he slides the plate her way regardless. Kim watches him do it, openly frowning at him because she's also seen him picking around his food at every meal. So far, she hasn't said anything to him about it. Why would she? His lack of an appetite means that Carmina gets to have more. She can't possibly complain about that.

Nick is more vocal about his concern, furrowing his brow as he asks for the second time this morning, "You sure you're okay?"

"Yes," John replies once again. He's too tired to be exasperated, but he wishes Nick would knock it the fuck off, at least until after they leave. The last thing he needs right now is for Kim to hold some sort of intervention. Just in case, he qualifies his _yes_ , choosing the most honest excuse he can this early in the morning. "I'm exhausted," he says. "I didn't get much sleep."

"Do you really wanna do this today, then? I mean, you said this thing was buried, and I don't wanna get stuck digging it out myself."

"I won't be any better rested tomorrow," John sighs, suppressing the yawn that tries to follow.

Nick doesn't look pleased, but he relents with a shrug. It isn't like they're going somewhere particularly dangerous, and even if they _do_ happen to run into trouble, Fall's End will be within eyesight. The wildlife won't be much of a problem, and drifters are more common in the eastern part of the county, moving in from the 94 and occasionally trying to bully their way through. John's confident that they won't run into any trouble, even _if_ he winds up passing out mid-dig.

John lets the rest of breakfast wash around him as he counts the minutes until they leave. He feels distinctly separated from the moment, the Rye family nothing more than white noise going in one ear and out the other. Silently dissociating around their idyllic family unit is still the norm, of course, but at least today he can blame it on too much heat and not enough sleep. Maybe he'll be able to get some rest in the truck, assuming Nick doesn't decide to test the suspension over every goddamn pothole.

Nick reluctantly says goodbye to Kim after breakfast, repeating it two or three times as Kim and Carmina see him off from the porch. John doesn't remember Nick as an anxious person; he doesn't know if there had always been long, uneasy goodbyes on the porch before work. The Collapse has turned most everybody into a paranoid mess, but maybe John just never knew Nick very well to begin with. He doesn't want to ask.

"Okay," Nick says once they're both buckled in, the windows cranked down. "You said we're looking for a silo outside of town?"

John waits until the truck lurches into drive to respond. "The silo was a convenient marker, but I doubt it's still there. I know where to look, though — assuming the landscape hasn't changed too dramatically."

"Well, let's hope so. I don't want to dig around for nothing."

"We both know who's going to be doing the digging."

"I _thought_ it was gonna be you, until you nearly passed out at breakfast. Probably gonna leave me with the hard work like the selfish prick you are."

"I'll be fine," John replies, yawning unabashedly. He rests his head next to the open window, closing his eyes against the hot wind. "I've done more with less energy."

"Yeah, sure," Nick says, rolling his eyes hard enough that John can hear it in his voice. He waits a few beats for John to return the gentle banter, but John can't muster up the energy. He needs to save it all for the dig. It's going to be hard enough on Nick, who manages to sleep at night. John isn't expecting to have much left for anything else once this is all over. It'll be a miracle if he makes it back home.

Quickly figuring out that John isn't in the mood to talk, Nick falls quiet. There isn't a radio station to listen to, so he hums under his breath occasionally, gently swerving along the cracked asphalt to avoid potholes. He's usually happy to bounce through them, but John knows better than to think it's for his sake.

John opens his eyes briefly, just in time to see the washed out turn that once led towards the Ranch. He hasn't been back yet. He doesn't think he could bear asking the Ryes for permission, let alone see the place rotting in a field. Despite repeated assurances to Joseph that he didn't care about his stronghold, he had hand-picked the furniture, the paint, the bedding — all of it — and he had spared little expense. Now, all of his pride and poorly spent money has been abandoned, probably picked clean by scavengers over the harshest years. After all, the security systems he had dropped thousands of dollars into hadn't been able to stop a cop wielding a shotgun — he doubts they would do much to deter anybody now.

He should have listened to Jacob when he'd said it was a waste of time. Of course, John hadn't paid much attention to anything Jacob said unless it was directly related to the Project. Part of him wishes he'd made more of an effort to connect with his oldest brother, but he doubts that he would have made it to this side of the Collapse if he had.

Once he starts thinking about Jacob, it's hard to stop. It's not much of a surprise that his oldest brother is on his mind, considering how often his dreams are haunted by Jacob's presence. Thankfully, with the sun in the sky and the wind on his face, John's more inclined to remember him for who he was, instead of imagining him as the specter of his nightmares. There are no dark corners for him to lurk in, and for once John imagines him as the quiet, withdrawn man he was.

It might have been almost ten years ago, but John can still remember riding along in Jacob's truck, listening to him hum along with the radio. The heat had broken late in August that year, so while the heat had been awful when Jacob had picked him up, it hadn't wiped John completely out. Not that it would have mattered — Jacob had no patience for John's distaste of heat, and he would have forced the issue regardless.

He'd gotten a brisk call fifteen minutes before Jacob showed up at the Ranch, telling him to be ready. John hadn't known what to be ready for, but he'd stopped asking questions by this point — when Joseph or Jacob arrived unannounced, he would only follow after them and do whatever they asked. As long as he did that, they would mostly leave him to his own devices. It had been more freedom than John had ever had in his life.

"You're positive nobody saw them," Jacob reiterates from the driver's seat. The memory of his voice bounces like an echo in John's skull.

"Of course I am," John remembers saying. He remembers being exasperated. Frustrated that even Jacob didn't trust him with menial tasks anymore. He had understood Joseph's distrust, had it explained plainly to him, but Jacob wouldn't even give him the chance to earn back the trust he'd somehow managed to lose. "Not that it matters," he remembers adding. "What can they do? It's our property. We could bury a plane there and they wouldn't be able to stop us."

Jacob's heavy sigh belies his irritation. "That's not always going to be the case. We don't know how the Reaping will go. Or the Collapse. You don't know what will be the last straw."

He'd been stressed. In two weeks, the Reaping would begin, but for now, Jacob's only concern is maintaining a steady flow of willing and able soldiers. He'd been irritable all the time, ever since he and Eli had fallen out, getting short with everybody, even Joseph, who allowed Jacob to be openly insubordinate even while punishing John for the same crime. The main problem in the weeks before the Reaping had been the slowing influx of soldiers making it through the trials. Lots of people had made it through at first. Nowadays, the conversion rate has dipped significantly. Jacob says it's because the people aren't strong enough, but John has a suspicion that it might have something to do with the Bliss, which has become more potent and arguably more toxic since Rachel's arrival as Faith. John hasn't brought up his concerns yet, because nobody has bothered to ask for his opinion. He will never get the chance to find out if he was right.

"John," Jacob's voice calls from the far away driver's seat. He sounds deeply, strangely concerned. "I'm trying to save you."

The words aren't right at all. John's body feels heavy in his seat, the hot air scratching at his face through the window. Where is he? They're on their way, but where?

The next thing Jacob says is achingly familiar, down to his tired inflection. "Joseph is worried about you," he says. "He still worries about your commitment."

It had been a warning, clear as day, and at the time it had filled John with a deep dread. But now, John feels nothing. Let Joseph be disappointed in him. Let him regret ever bringing John back into his life. John hopes it's a bitter pill he chokes on.

John had been on the defensive that day, scoffing loudly and snapping, "And yet, _I'm_ the one converting the faithless." But the defensiveness is missing in the words. The people he'd been using like points against his brother are all dead now, and bragging about the things he'd done only roils his stomach.

"I don't think it's about converting people." Jacob reaches for the rear-view mirror, checking it for the umpteenth time as the truck trundles towards the distant silo. "Forget the religious bullshit for a minute. What we're doing, what's going to happen — we can't afford mistakes. We have to be prepared for every possibility. You understand that, don't you?"

"Nobody saw them," John sighs. "I _promise_."

"Good," Jacob mutters. He takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out.

"Honestly, though. There are caches all over the county. I don't remember you being so particular about the last dozen drop points I organized."

At first, Jacob hadn't responded. John had thought at the time that it was because he was tired of having to explain his every move to someone as soft and short-sighted as John. He'd figured, as he always had, that Jacob saw him as nothing but the PR arm of the Project, kept around out of blood loyalty and nothing else. He would grimace whenever John mentioned atonement, mentioned his hard work, and John had suspected he thought it was beneath him.

But now John wonders if that's all there was to it.

"I'm trying to cover for every possibility," Jacob says. "That's all. It'd be good if you could help me."

"I _did_ help," John retorts. "I _do_ help. I do everything Joseph asks me to, and I don't complain about it. I don't complain when _you_ order my men and me around, either, even though that was _never_ part of the deal."

Jacob clicks his tongue against his teeth. He's checking the mirrors again, all of them. John remembers him checking the glove-box during their conversation, but he doesn't do that now. It hadn't mattered — there hadn't been anything in there — but John remembers it being very, _very_ strange. The glove-box hangs open for a moment in his memory, as he looks through the windshield and spots the tall, bright red silo down the road.

"I wish you would plan ahead for yourself," Jacob says at last. "Stop taking orders and start taking initiative."

John huffs. "You've seen how well Joseph responds to that."

"Yeah," Jacob replies. John had been too arrogant to realize at the time that Jacob was commiserating with him, leaving him feeling deeply guilty now.

"He's convinced that the Reaping is going to begin any time now," John continues, ignoring Jacob's visible-in-hindsight unease. "Do we really have time to be burying barrels of ammunition? Or is this your newest plan to stick it to Eli?"

"It's for after the Reaping," Jacob says.

"A whole lot of good it does us this far from the bunkers."

Jacob had a real response for John, once. It had even satisfied him, at least enough to stop his complaining. But John doesn't remember what Jacob's reasoning had been; all he has is his exhausted brain struggling to stitch together the memory.

"There's so much you don't know. That you'll never find out." Jacob reaches out, his hand resting on John's shoulder, but there's no physical connection. John can't feel the weight of his hand, and for a dizzying moment the world around him turns smudged and blurry. There's a distinct melancholy in the words that Jacob never exhibited. "You know that I didn't believe any of it."

The weight on his shoulder comes out of nowhere, startling John awake as Nick calls his name. He kicks the dashboard as he jolts upright, and Nick leans back as he flings his hands out to steady himself.

"Shit," he gasps, grabbing the door handle. One disorienting glance is all John needs to realize where he is; Nick has pulled up just past the church, and the late summer heat of the apocalyptic landscape reasserts itself as reality once more.

"Sorry," Nick says. "I just, uh... need some directions from here."

"Yes," John replies. The urge to bolt from the truck is overwhelming, but John clings to the door and manages to stay in his seat. "Of course."

They sit for a minute before Nick awkwardly prompts, "Uh... Well?"

John desperately attempts to reorient himself, still stuck in the fog of his dream. "There should be a left turn up ahead. The silo was in a field on the right side of the road, just before the turnout before Larry Parker's house."

"God, talk about whack-jobs," Nick mutters as he pulls ahead. The intersection is mostly washed out now, barely distinguishable from the dunes that have formed over the fields, but Nick has a local's muscle memory. "I mean, I believe in aliens as much as the next guy, but _Jesus_. You hear what happened to him?"

"Not specifically. I assumed he was killed in the Reaping or the Collapse." Despite himself, John finds his curiosity piqued. "Why? Was I wrong?"

"I mean... I guess it's up to your interpretation." Nick doesn't bother to ease around the potholes now that John is awake, bumping them down along the cracked asphalt. "So, the way Dep told me, they went to go check up on Larry, y'know, make sure he's okay. Larry's got his weird-ass machines going, and he's talkin' about aliens and shit, as he usually is, and Dep keeps going, 'Larry, there's no time for aliens, there are cultists coming for you!' But, of course Larry pushes the point until Dep caves, like, 'Fine, let's fix the generator first, _then_ we can run from the cult.'

"Except the cult rolled up right on top of them before they could patch everything up. Of course, Dep manages to clear them out, and Larry gets his machine working in the meantime. He says, 'help me get to Mars, Deputy!' and they figure, 'hey, might as well humor him.' I mean, what else can you do when the guy you're trying to evacuate insists he's got a fast pass to outer space?"

"Is this honestly what the Deputy was dealing with while we were in the middle of seizing the Valley and its resources?" John asks. He probably shouldn't be surprised, but _really_. Larry Parker's life couldn't possibly have been worth all the effort involved.

"I guess," Nick shrugs. "People were asking them to do all sorts of weird shit. So, anyway, Larry says so long to Dep and to Earth, and tells Dep to flip the switch. Dep decides that the sooner Larry realizes this isn't going to work, the better, so they turn the machine on the way Larry told them to, and, well, long story short, I guess the thing vaporized the poor guy."

However the story was supposed to end, _that_ hadn't been what John expected. His disbelief is momentarily overwhelming, and he can't help but choke out, " _Excuse_ me?"

Nick shrugs. "I mean, that's what Dep told me later. They were real bummed out about it, too. I guess that makes sense, since they felt responsible. But, at the same time... he said it was a teleporter, right? So maybe he wasn't vaporized at all. Maybe he really did get zapped to Mars."

"The choices are 'vaporized' or 'teleported to Mars'? Are you serious?"

"I guess Dep could have been bullshitting me, but it fits with what I remember about the guy."

John frowns. "I suppose either option is better than what happened to the rest of us," he says, "Although realistically, the man was one paranoid delusion away from assassinating a government official. I don't think he was nearly as technologically savvy as he professed himself to be."

"He wasn't _that_ bad," Nick says as he shakes his head. "He was just some kook who believed in aliens more than people. And, well... I mean, if he really _did_ make it to Mars, then we probably look like a bunch of assholes from wherever he's sitting." He sighs, then admits, "I wish I could've gone to Mars. I bet Kim would like it there."

" _Why_?"

"I dunno, she always wanted to go on foreign trips and stuff. Can't get much more foreign than outer space." He hums thoughtfully, then says, "I guess she would've been pregnant, though, and if you can't fly with a pregnant lady, I bet you can't vaporize them either."

John takes a deep breath through his nose before he responds, reminding himself that he owes Nick his life. "That's a logical assumption," he manages to say, proud of his nearly-neutral delivery.

"Oh, shut up," Nick snaps, although he doesn't seem particularly upset by John's back-talk. "I'm just saying, _if_ that's what would happen. It's not like I'm gonna go hot-wire the thing and test it out _now_."

"I certainly hope not. There's no way I'm explaining _that_ to the bloodthirsty mob that comes for me after you've disintegrated."

They've nearly reached the end of the road. John can see the T-shaped intersection coming up ahead, but he doesn't immediately recognize the right-hand field. A copse of pine trees have put down roots, and although John can see the skeletal framework of the hay storage, there's no sign of the silo that once marked the spot. John doesn't know if it was destroyed during the Reaping or in the Collapse. It doesn't really matter — everything it held has long since rotted away.

"Here?" Nick asks as they roll to the end of the road. John remembers Jacob slowing along the empty field; he had barely come to a stop to investigate the location. It had been around here that Jacob had checked the tilled soil for any hint at what lay underneath. He'd seemed content with how John's people had handled it, leaving the field as unassuming and untouched as they had found it.

If there had been any hint left behind in the silo or the hay storage, it's been wiped from the face of the planet. Long, sun-bleached panels of what used to be a silo lay scattered across the ground, weather-beaten past their use. Some pieces are pinned in place by the nine-year tree growth, never to be moved again. It's a struggle for John to envision the spot as it used to be, but there's no doubt that this is the right place.

"Yes," John says. "This is it."

Nick puts the truck in park and climbs out of the cab. John waits a moment longer, hoping to spot some hidden bump or curve that would indicate where to dig, but of course nothing reveals itself. He should have paid more attention. At the very least, he should have paid more attention to Jacob's diatribes about preparedness. Maybe he would be able to determine exactly where to start if he had.

John's nerves ease as he steps out of the car and stands at the edge of the worn-out road. It doesn't matter if he doesn't remember the exact spot — there's always been an element of gut instinct in understanding Jacob's methods, and John has plenty of that to rely on in lieu of real information. If he has to waste his time out here, then he might as well try to waste it productively.

He meanders a bit along the shoulder, then takes ten paces onto the field. Instinct has him go another twenty steps, until he's halfway between the truck and the hay storage. "Here, I think," he calls out to Nick, who's wandered ahead to explore the wreckage.

"Are you sure?" Nick asks as he passes John, returning to the truck for the shovels. "I don't wanna be digging holes all day like some kind of Stanley Yelnats."

" _I'll_ be the one digging," John replies tepidly. "I don't need your help."

"What else am I gonna do, sit around and watch you all day? C'mon, let's get to work."

Really, John had expected as much. Nick can't leave things alone, and he can't resist giving whatever help he can. Long ago, John had figured it was a sign of Nick's obsessive need for control, something dark to be manipulated hidden under a folksy veneer. He had never considered that Nick's stubborn helpfulness had really been a coping mechanism for some long-standing anxiety. Even now, knowing full well that Nick's biggest worry is seeming unhelpful, John struggles to accept it. It still rubs him the wrong way when Nick insists on giving him a hand on some menial task that he ordered John to do in the first place.

Digging a three-foot hole is easier with two people, though, so of course John doesn't argue. The two of them hit a rhythm pretty quickly, although John's lack of sleep is slowing him down. Normally, the beat of manual labor is the only thing that helps empty out his mind, getting him as close to meditation as possible these days. For the first few months with the Ryes, it had been the only tangible comfort he had. He could disengage mentally while performing simple tasks with visible results, then ascribe to them penance for any one of his crimes. Even now, John can't help but wonder which sin he's paying for as he buries the spade into the ground.

They dig three feet down before John calls it. "Okay, _fine_ ," he hisses through gritted teeth. "It's close to here. Maybe..."

John ignores Nick's theatrical sigh as he takes a few paces to the left and begins all over again. Of course, it doesn't take long before Nick joins back in.

"Maybe we should hunt down a metal detector," Nick suggests when the second hole reveals nothing.

"Sure, Nick," John snaps, "Add that to the other rational shit on your wife's shopping list."

"Jesus, it was just a joke."

John is far too hot, tired and sweaty to handle any jokes right now, much less from somebody he's trying to help. If Nick thinks John is digging around under the blazing sun just for his own enjoyment, then he can go fuck himself.

Even with John's attitude tanking rapidly, Nick continues to help him dig another hole and a half. His help only makes the defeat sting worse when John has finally had enough. He has no energy left, which makes flopping down on the dirt as easy as giving up. He buries his sweaty, sunburned face into his dirty hands, unable to hold back a groan.

"God _damn_ it."

"What, that's it?" Nick huffs, pushing his hat back to wipe at his sweating forehead. He's using his shovel as a prop, and no amount of bravado can hide how much John's wild goose chase has worn him down. "You're just giving up?"

" _No_ ," John spits, despite that being _exactly_ what he's doing. "I just need a fucking _break_."

There was a time when Nick would have punched him for being so miserable, but he doesn't even comment on it today. Somehow, it manages to make John feel worse, as though Nick's pity is fueling his fiery self-loathing. Nothing helps, especially not when Nick jabs his shovel into the dirt and offers John an excuse. "Probably need something to eat," he says. "Some water, or something. Look... just stay there, okay? I got a canteen in the truck, it'll just take a second."

The most response John can offer up is an affirmative grunt. He drops his hands from his face, watching Nick retreat to the truck before turning his eyes on the derelict storage in the opposite direction. He should have known better. He should have known that it would be impossible to find the cache without Jacob's help. Other than a set of probably mis-remembered coordinates and a gut sensation of being _so close_ , John is flying completely blind. Why the hell hadn't he known any better? He could have saved them the time, gas and disappointment, if only he'd just kept his stupid mouth shut.

He guesses it must be progress that he's blaming himself and not Kim, whose insomnia kicked this whole thing off. It doesn't feel like much to show.

The wind changes direction, finally sending the few clouds in the sky drifting past the sun. The breeze picks up, sending a ripple of noise through the young pines. Pink-flowered vines creep through the roots of the trees and up the metal legs of the shed, twisting and choking the rest of the weeds just like they do everywhere else. Despite them being a mysterious, invasive species, they soften the landscape, lending a pink sugar-coating to the wasteland. John watches the blossoms bob in the breeze and thinks that Joseph might have been wrong about a lot of things, but he hadn't been too far off in declaring Hope County a promising garden.

The flowers look so much like the ones that had decorated the hem of Faith's dress that it's impossible not to think about her. John remembers the silk blossoms stitched onto lace, trying to conceal the ripped hem. There had been a dozen women who had tried to take on the mantle left behind by Joseph's wife, but now the only one John can imagine is Rachel, dancing in the sunlight. Even now he sees her swaying along with the wind, although he only has to blink for the vision to fade. A dozen women hadn't made the same impression that Rachel had. They hadn't been as proactive as her when it came to the Path, and they couldn't hold a candle to her wide-eyed understanding of the Bliss. None of them had adopted themselves as a sister into the family, turning quickly into the golden child that Joseph could praise over all others. They'd tried to fill the shoes of a dead woman that they couldn't hold a candle to. Rachel had been much, much smarter than that.

After all, none of those women haunt the landscape the way Rachel does. John, tired as he is, can almost hear her playfully humming on the breeze. She would sing in his bunker, vibrant and full-throated hymns written by dead followers, but now he only ever imagines the quietest tunes. Faith always seemed to be everywhere at once, thanks to the Bliss, but now she only seems to exist where John's memory allows.

Although the music fades as quickly as it came, John feels it echoing inside him. He closes his eyes against the bright afternoon light, but that doesn't do much to ease the pounding headache that's swiftly developing. He can feel his pulse against the hard-packed dirt when he drops his hands to the ground. Faith's laughter in his mind is quiet and playfully condescending as he's overwhelmed by the urge to stagger to the safety of the trees.

Nick abruptly appears in front of John, his worried face hidden under his hat. "Let's get you into the shade," he says, his voice warped by the blood rushing through John's ears. Nothing improves as Nick helps him to his feet and drags him under the shady pines. His head pounds as he collapses against one of the trees; when Nick puts the canteen in his hands, he takes a few grateful pulls of warm water until the headache begins to recede.

"Goddamn it, John," Nick says. "You have _got_ to knock this shit off. You can't keep pushing yourself until you get sick. What am I supposed to do if you get heatstroke? Do you think we have unlimited supplies to keep dealing with your bullshit? I can't keep taking care of you."

"Whatever," John croaks. "I'm fine. I just need a minute."

"You can't _seriously_ think I'm going to let you keep going. You must be delirious."

Taking one more long drink of water, John finally drops the canteen into his lap. "You don't understand," he rasps. "I'm not — it's here. I know it is, I just..."

Nick waits a beat before he takes up where John trails off. " _You_ need to rest. You think Kim and I don't notice you're not eating or sleeping again? Hell, even _Carmina_ notices, and she doesn't give a shit about you. How exactly are you supposed to be any use to us if you're like this all the time?"

John scowls, but he doesn't respond. How can he? Nick is right.

When all he gets is silence, Nick finally heaves a tired sigh and crouches down to John's level. "Look, we'll compromise, okay?" he suggests, with a tone he usually reserves for Carmina. "You're gonna rest here for me, and I'm gonna go dig another hole for you. If I don't find anything, we'll go back home and try again once you're better prepared."

He should resent Nick for treating him like a child, but John can only surrender with a weary nod. "I promise it's here," he says, hating how audible his misery is. "I know it is."

Nick scratches his brow. "I believe you," he says, although John doubts his sincerity. "We're gonna find it — maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but we'll do it. You, uh, want me to keep digging where we were, or..."

John sighs, slumping against the tree. "Yeah," he rasps. "Sure."

It's a miserable feeling, knowing that he's sending Nick on a wild goose chase, but John doesn't stop the other man from heading back out into the sun. He watches Nick pick a spot at seemingly random, drifting in and out as he waits for Nick to give up. He wouldn't even have to dig a full three feet before writing the whole thing off as one of John's delusions. John wishes Nick were that kind of man.

There's nothing there. That much is obvious when Nick finally stops digging, knee-deep in the hole and scrubbing furiously at his forehead. John knows just enough about Nick to suspect he'd genuinely hoped to find it — which just makes the defeat that much worse. John is used to disappointing himself, but letting Nick down stings.

"It's fine," John rasps when Nick returns, not waiting for platitudes or empty reassurances. "Let's just go."

Nick helps John to his feet again, and to make things worse, he keeps making suggestions. "Maybe we can find a tractor that still works. I bet there's probably a back-hoe somewhere in the county we could fix up. That might make it easier, right?"

They cut through the trees to reach the road, and John covers his eyes as they move back into the bright light. He turns back to look at the empty holes they've left behind — and for just a second, he can clearly see the bright red silo where it once stood. It's only a fleeting glimpse of the past, but it's as clear as if he were staring at it from Jacob's truck, enjoying the air conditioning while ignoring Jacob as he says, "So long as we're prepared, we can always start again."

"Wait," John says. "Hold on."

"Come on," Nick groans loudly, "It's hot, I'm tired, and this is getting _depressing_."

John rolls his eyes, grabbing one of the shovels from the truck before Nick can stop him. "Fine," he says, "Go home, then."

"For God's sake..."

John ignores Nick as he takes five quick paces forward, turning and staring at the nonexistent silo. It hadn't been here, it had been...

The spot is mostly random, but as John drives the shovel into the dirt, he feels suddenly _vindicated_. He'd been thrown off by the trees, and it's hard to see just where the road ends these days, and of course he doesn't have the silo's long shadow to guide him. But now he knows better, and he isn't going to make the same mistakes again.

Nick pitches in, because of course he does. Even worse, he does it without complaint. Still, John needs the help; his burst of adrenaline has faded, leaving him to rapidly flag behind until Nick is picking up his slack. They don't talk as they dig, even as time wears on without any indication of them being in the right place. John doesn't think he has the energy to chat, and Nick probably just wants to yell at him, so silence is their best option. This hole could be as pointless as every other one they've dug today, but blind faith pushes John on to dig just a little deeper, just a little longer.

They hit three feet without finding anything. John twists the shovel between his palms, the tip churning the dirt.

"Okay, _now_ are you satisfied?" Nick asks, flopping to the ground beside their latest waste of time. "Are you ready to wrap it up for today, or...?"

John shakes his head, not even realizing he's doing it. He doesn't even know what he's rejecting — the idea of giving up, or the idea that they might come back out here? Why the hell should they? Just because John thinks he _might_ remember a cache of weapons Jacob buried a decade ago? What good would it even do, finding it now? Kim's already made it clear that they don't _want_ more weapons. They want food, they want peace of mind, they want things to be the way they _were_. There is nothing that Eden's Gate could possibly give them that could help.

Nick slides closer, brow furrowed. "John," he says."

"I _know_ ," John snaps, "I'm _sorry_. This was a waste of time. Forget it."

Picking up his abandoned shovel, Nick jabs the scoop into the hole, aiming for the wall beneath John's feet, and the motion is met with a metallic _thunk_. As John steps around for a better look, Nick taps the shovel upwards, until the scoop slides between the flash of half-hidden metal and the undisturbed earth above it. There's no mistaking the green enamel barrel that's revealed as the dirt falls away.

Dropping into the hole, John takes Nick's shovel and begins to heave the dirt away, scraping the scoop along the sides of the metal container until it's half-exposed in the ground. John can't help a triumphant shout as he reveals it, like a paleontologist discovering an unknown species.

Nick grabs the second shovel and pitches in, making short work of the dirt John can't reach. The steel drum is two feet tall and a foot or so wide, and John recognizes it from the Bliss packaging plant. Thankfully, it doesn't have a tight-head lid that implies the cannister is full of drugs. It looks utterly untouched, save for a few scratches from their shovels; the rubber sealant sprayed around the lid hasn't even cracked.

"Well, shit," Nick says, staring down at the barrel in open disbelief.

"I told you," John pants, vindicated. "I _told_ you."

"Yeah, you sure did," Nick agrees, bobbing his head. "So... uh, what now? Do we open it up here, or take it home?"

John runs a hand over the glossy paint. As much as he wants to open it now, he can't help but remember Jacob's paranoia, reminded momentarily of how he had checked over and over for any spies or tails they might've gained while driving.

"It might be best to take it somewhere... less open," John points out. "We have no idea what's inside."

"Oh. Yeah, you're probably right."

It takes some finessing, but the two of them manage to wrestle the barrel out of the hole and, eventually, into the truck bed. Nick cranks the air conditioning as soon as he turns on the car, and John thankfully slumps into his seat as the cold air washes over him. After making a loose U-turn that narrowly misses the hole, Nick shakes the canteen in John's direction.

"Kim's gonna be pissed if she finds out I left you out in the sun like that," he says. "Try to get a hold of yourself before we get back, okay?"

Nick is terrible at sounding callous, but John isn't going to tell him as much. "Don't worry," he sighs. "I don't want her to know any more than you."

The drive back is mostly free of potholes, thanks to Nick's careful driving. John can't help but reaffirm the cache's existence every few minutes, checking the rear-view mirror to ensure it hasn't fallen out or disappeared like so many figments of his imagination have. He wonders what's inside. Certainly ammunition and weapons, but what else? Jacob had always been prepared for disasters, so it could have emergency kits or expired food rations. There will probably be money, too, although that won't help them now.

If Nick is also wondering, he keeps it to himself. He's relaxed in his seat, one arm hanging out his window, fingers occasionally tapping aimlessly against the door. He'll probably be satisfied no matter what Jacob decided to squirrel away, so long as it's not rotten food and Project propaganda. If that turns out to be the case, John will burn the contents himself.

The sun has half-set by the time they return to the Rye homestead. Nobody is waiting anxiously for their return, but it doesn't take long for Kim to come around the side of the house. She whistles appreciatively as the two men maneuver the barrel out of the bed.

"You guys actually found it!" she exclaims. "I thought it would take at _least_ a few days."

"We got lucky," Nick replies. He doesn't mention how many holes they had to dig, or how rough the going had gotten near the end. John hopes that he looks better than he feels, at least to keep Kim from lecturing them.

Even though the cache is only about eighty or ninety pounds, it takes some careful footwork for the two men to carry it inside without dropping it. By the time they set the barrel down next to the table, Carmina has claimed one of the chairs, standing on it for a better look. Nick doubles back to the truck and returns with a crowbar, which will hopefully be enough to pry off the lid.

"What's inside?" Carmina asks, grabbing the back of the chair as she cranes forward.

"Well, hold on," Nick sighs, "Let me figure this out."

Unlike the barrels John remembers, this one isn't sealed with a tight-head valve at the top. Instead, it looks as though the lid had been hammered down into place, and then sprayed with rubber sealant to prevent gaps. It takes Nick a few tries to bury the crowbar's teeth under the lid, but he's rewarded by a satisfying groan of metal. The seal finally gives as part of the lid warps under the force.

Nick peels the lid back and John's heart leaps into his throat. Part of him expects a cloud of Bliss, or some kind of bomb, or a countdown to a new Armageddon. But there's no bomb, no Mist, no doomsday clock. Instead, John finds himself looking down at a bundle of nondescript green canvas, packed tightly alongside a cylindrical nylon bag.

" _Well_?" Carmina asks.

John glances at Kim and Nick, only to find them staring back at him. It's as much an order as a request for help, and John steels himself before reaching in and grabbing the fabric. He recognizes the generic duffel bag as soon as he pulls it out — they had been ordered in bulk for the Project before they'd even reached Montana. While it isn't full, it definitely carries most of the cache's weight, and John has to adjust his grip as he sets it out on the table.

With the pack out of the way, Nick is less cautious about poking around in the remaining supplies. He takes the nylon bag out next, rattling the contents thoughtfully. "I think we've got a tent, here," he says, pulling open the drawstring to check. "Yeah, poles, stakes and everything."

There are two cardboard boxes inside, and Kim pulls out one at a time. "I think these are... rations?" she suggests, setting the boxes down next to the unopened bag. "That's what the packaging says, anyway. And this one, the heavier one? It's completely taped up."

"Could be dangerous," Nick suggests as Kim goes back to check for any remaining contents.

John stares at the duffel bag, his fingers feeling clumsy on the zipper tab. None of this feels right. Just how many times had he seen Jacob take bags like this one to his truck? How many of those had been full of supplies for a back-up plan he had never been made aware of? There's no sign of the Project so far, but John can't imagine that will last. What is he going to do when he reveals a bag full of propaganda in front of Carmina? There's no way Kim and Nick will believe he didn't know.

Careful not to rip the fabric, John steels himself with a breath and yanks on the zipper. He expects guns and ammunition, or copies of Joseph's book, or intel that would have been vital for rebuilding after the Collapse. Instead, John finds silver mylar bags, packed nearly to bursting, each one labeled in permanent marker. One reads "RICE (3LB, KEEP)," while another says "POTATO (.5LB, KEEP)" — and still another bag, this one with one clear side, has two cartons of instant coffee sealed inside.

There are guns, too, although not nearly enough. John is careful as he sets out the two .45 pistols tucked into the canvas, along with two boxes of matching ammunition and a few more boxes of miscellaneous shells that might come in handy. He inspects every box for any sign of the Project, but everything is utterly nondescript. Jacob might as well have picked these supplies up at a sporting goods store.

He keeps pulling things out until the bag is empty and the items are laid out across the table for the Ryes to see. Not only does John find more food, but he also finds a crank flashlight and a pair of binoculars, two bundles of paracord, a roll of unused duct tape, two sealed cartons of cigarettes, two pristine hunting knives and a deck of playing cards. The biggest surprise is the fact that Jacob risked packing away two bottles of unlabeled alcohol in a dry cache, but then again, Jacob had always had a soft spot for liquor. They'd been wrapped in plastic wrap and taped up tight, so if they leaked, it hasn't affected the other supplies.

There's more food than ammunition, John realizes. Rice, sugar, instant coffee, dry beef stock, not to mention the miscellaneous array of military rations that have been packed into every nook and cranny. It's hardly a cache. It's more like a squirrel's stockpile for a long winter.

"Did you guys see this?" Kim asks, leaning over Carmina to lay a small nylon pack on the table. She opens it carefully, revealing a tri-folded emergency pack stuffed with medical supplies. One use antiseptic wipes, gauze, bandages and more, all still in its factory packaging. John remembers seeing them stocked at Lorna's ages ago. It's the kind of emergency kit that tourists would buy once they realized just how unprepared they were for rural Montana.

"I thought this was supposed to be for the cult," Nick says, frowning at the supplies spread out on the table. "But most of this is stuff you'd get at the store. There's not even one of those fake Bibles in here or _anything_."

"That's what he told me it was," John replies, although it feels uneasily close to a lie. "...At least, that's what I assumed. He had my people handle it, he shared its location with me... It _had_ to be for the Project." Saying it aloud doesn't make him feel any more certain, but he can't imagine what else Jacob could have been planning. "What does it matter?" he quickly deflects, gesturing towards the eighty-some pounds of supplies. "Who cares what he was planning. It's yours now."

Unlike her parents, Carmina doesn't need to be told twice. She immediately drags the box of military rations closer to her chair, eager to devour any new literature, even if it's nutritional information and website reviews. Nick takes one of the knives and uses it to slice open the heavily taped box that they still haven't investigated. John can't imagine that it could be anything dangerous, given the rest of the cache's contents, but that doesn't mean he's any less on edge.

"Uh... huh," Nick says once he finally cracks the box open. "It's just more of the same. 'Two pounds rice, barter.' 'Two pounds sugar, barter.' But didn't he already pack some rice in the bag?"

Carmina points her finger at the offending bag. "It says 'keep' on it."

"I thought you guys were going to be the only survivors," Nick wonders, frowning heavily at John. "I mean, those weirdos have been keeping to themselves since they came back. And I got the impression that you weren't gonna be _friendly neighbors_."

"There weren't supposed to _be_ neighbors," John replies. "Anyone outside of the Project who survived were our enemies. This should have been..." He gestures helplessly, unable to figure out _what_ Jacob should have squirreled away for the end of the world. "It should have been weapons. Project intelligence. None of this would have mattered if things had gone the way they were meant to. I don't — I don't know what he was planning with this."

Or maybe, he hadn't been listening when Jacob had talked about starting over.

"This... is too much," Kim says, tearing John away from that horrible thought before it can take hold. "Right? This is too much for us. We can't possibly keep it all."

"Excuse me?" John asks, unable to mask how deeply the comment offends him. "You're _joking_ . I went through all of this for _you_ ." He points at the sugar, the salt, and says accusingly, "These were on _your_ list!"

"That's not what I mean, John."

John is getting sick and tired of being treated like a child today, but that doesn't mean he appreciates it when Nick takes the opposite route. "Don't be a baby," he groans. "You know what she meant."

"We'll keep what we need," Kim offers, "But we can't keep _everything_. It wouldn't be fair."

"And it'll look bad if we're the only ones who benefit," Nick adds. "They'll know it's because of you, and the cult, and they'll get the wrong idea. They might've shut up for now, but we don't know how long that'll last."

It's hard to fight the urge to run from the conversation, if only to keep himself from saying something stupid, but John manages to stay rooted to the spot. They're right, after all. They can't expect other people to turn a blind eye to anything beneficial John provides. Hell, he has no doubt somebody noticed them driving today. Somebody had to have seen them out in the dirt. It would only take a quick trip to find the holes they'd left behind.

"Yes," he mutters at last. It comes as a relief, followed immediately by his own admission. "You're both right. I know that."

Nick clearly expected more of a fight, if his relieved expression is anything to go by. "Good. Okay." He grabs one of the mylar bags as he sits, which holds two cartons of instant coffee. For a moment, he only stares at the red plastic through the clear side of the bag, and then he sighs. "Of course, now I wanna keep it all."

"We can keep the coffee," Kim says. "Or, well... we can keep some of it. We should probably give the rest up..."

It seems that doing the right thing in this situation has left the Ryes at a loss. Really, it shouldn't be a surprise. Even for a small cache, these are a lot of supplies, and there are no clear benefits to divvying it up in any particular way. On top of that, there had never been much structure to the Valley's resistance — unlike the Whitetails, people in the valley had relied on guerrilla tactics and appropriating the cult's infrastructure for their own use. The fight here had been over before they'd had time to organize.

"Well, I guess we give away whatever says 'barter' on it," Nick finally says. "And... I dunno. I mean, Jacob was meticulous as hell, right? Wouldn't he have known what to keep? Why did he only want to trade this stuff?"

"I don't _know_ ," John snaps. "It isn't as though he planned for this. I have no idea what he would have done. I don't know why he thought to bury this shit in a field! If this was going to be a backup plan, then there should be money, _passports,_ blackmail — something to help him get out of trouble. Not — not _cooking supplies_ and _playing cards_ . This isn't what he was supposed to be _doing_ with his time!"

The realization that John had never really known Jacob cuts deeper than he'll ever admit. John breathes hard through his nose, trying desperately to grab hold of his ballooning anger. He'd known Jacob hadn't taken the religious aspect of the Project seriously, but that hadn't meant he didn't believe in the Project's end goal. He'd been more integral to their success than John, for God's sake! The bunkers had been _his_ idea!

But Jacob had been pragmatic. If he had felt even a twinge of doubt, he would have made plans to account for it. But if that were the case, why would he have shown his hand to John like he had, when John had been so deeply entrenched? Why risk Joseph finding out? Why not play this as close to his chest as John had played all of his own secret betrayals?

"I don't know what he would do," John manages to say. There's a tangled knot of emotion balled up inside his chest, but like so many other things, he forcibly sidelines it. "It doesn't matter what he wanted. He's dead now. All of it is yours."

Kim hears his voice catch, it's clear from her expression, but she thankfully doesn't comment on it. "Well, let's think about it logically," she says. "For one, I think Grace could use some of the ammunition. She might appreciate some coffee, too, Nick."

"Yeah, I guess," Nick says mournfully. "There _are_ two boxes, after all."

Kim chews thoughtfully on her lip, then pivots towards John. "You had to deal with directing resources, right?" she asks. "I remember all of the deliveries coming in and out of the Ranch."

"They won't trust any decisions I make," John replies, trying to cut the suggestion off at the head.

"I'm sure they wouldn't, but I'm not asking for you to make a decision. Just... You know more about this than we do, and I want your input."

John frowns, looking towards Nick for an objection. Unfortunately, Nick doesn't have one, although he doesn't look happy about Kim's request.

Sighing, John considers the groups they need to satisfy. Between Grace, the town, the trailer park and themselves, it's unlikely they'll have much to store, but a surplus would be ideal in case they need to bargain with people coming in from the west. John doesn't like the idea of giving the weapons away, but they would be an easy way to ingratiate the Ryes to anyone still upset at them for taking him in. He wants nothing more than to keep the alcohol and cigarettes, but those would be better as bargaining chips.

He starts by breaking the ammunition up, followed by the mylar bags, until the random array on the tabletop begins to separate out into four distinct piles. Seeing the resources shift in real time is the easiest way to ensure things are balanced, but John remains fully aware of the three sets of eyes on him as he begins to take over the table. While Kim and Carmina move to give John more space, Nick remains seated the entire time, his arms crossed and his eyes on the food that John is moving from one pile to another. He's clearly worried that the family will wind up with too little. He probably feels guilty that he wants to take more from others who could use the supplies.

When he's mostly finished, John has five piles organized across the table — one for each group, plus one comprised of larger bags they'll need to separate. Hopefully, they won't comment on how much he's chosen to keep for them — if they disagree with his decisions, they can wait until he escapes for the night to argue about it.

Kim had been right, though. John had been the one to schedule deliveries, redirect supplies and organize Reaping trucks; hopefully they can appreciate his choices, even if they decide not to listen to him.

"Here's what we have," he says. "The ammunition is split between everyone, as well as the rations. Given the town's location and size, they'll be better off with basic ingredients. They already have hunting equipment and usable cookware. We haven't seen the trailer park, but it's in hostile territory, and I don't think they dedicate time to cooking, so we give them more rations to make up for it. The cigarettes will be a gesture of goodwill, and they can use the sugar more than any one group. At the very least, it means they won't be ingesting straight ethanol for a few days."

Nick sniffs loudly, but neither he nor Kim interrupt, so John pushes forward. "You keep the components," he explains, "But give Grace the knives and whatever ammunition she needs. We can split the rice evenly, but it won't be very much. It would be better to keep it for ourselves, or else give it to one group alone."

"Still seems like a lot is left for us," Kim points out.

"Then _you_ give the rest of it away," John says through gritted teeth. "I did what you asked me to do. This is what makes sense."

Kim nods. "You did, and I appreciate it."

John wishes she would appreciate what Jacob did instead, but he holds the comment back. It's his exhaustion talking, or the long day, or the lingering headache from the heat. None of those things are worth risking the shred of goodwill he's garnered with the Ryes. And the longer he hangs around here, the more likely it is that Nick or Kim will do something to _really_ upset him.

"If that's everything, then it's been a long day. I need some..." _Space_ , he wants to say, but he can only tiredly commit to, "I need some air."

"Sure," Kim says. She tries to mask her pity, but there's no hiding it. "Just don't go too far. Dinner's almost ready."

As if John is going to _eat_ anything. But he keeps that comment to himself as well, knowing that it'll just start a fight that he's too tired to win. Besides, watching the Ryes go through Jacob's supplies and divvy them out the way _they'd_ prefer might be too much for him to handle right now. He needs to put some distance between himself and his brother, even if it's only the short walk to the front porch.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even with new resources to manage, Kim still makes time to check in on John.

John might try to couch it in exasperation and paint it as a tactical retreat, but Kim sees him leaving for what it really is: gut instinct telling him to escape. She doesn't blame him for needing space, of course. From the way Nick watches him go, it's clear that the day's been harder than either of them have let on. She's sure that Nick will tell her the details later, but right now, it doesn't look like he has the energy. That's also fine; John's fragile emotional state is easily put on the back-burner. She has more important things to worry about right now. For one thing, she's got eighty pounds of supplies to handle and a family that's uncomfortable with the responsibility.

"It's still too much for us, isn't it," Nick says mournfully. "We gotta give more away, don't we?"

Kim privately admits to herself that she doesn't  _ want _ to give any more away. Hell, she's even reluctant to give away what might be kept for bargaining later. The boxes of military rations, the ten pounds of salt, the five pounds of rice — they wouldn't have anything to worry about during winter. They wouldn't even have to leave the house if they didn't want to. But John has left all of that in a neutral fifth pile for them to divvy out equally, and Kim  _ can't _ allow herself to be more selfish than him. That is absolutely unacceptable.

"We can give away the potato flakes," Kim says, diplomatically moving them to the center pile. "If we still don't feel like it's enough, we can give away more. But right now, we need to conserve the resources we have control over." Sighing hard in an attempt to blow stray hairs from her face, she adds, "Honestly, we should check that everything is still good before we decide to give anything away." After all, everything looks fine at a glance, but Kim has seen first-hand just how insidious mold can be in ill-stored supplies. Just because Jacob  _ seemed _ to be prepared doesn't mean he couldn't make a mistake, and Kim isn't about to trust  _ any _ Seed implicitly.

"I guess you're right," Nick replies, picking up one of the mylar bags and examining its contents through the clear side. Kim remembers the brand of powdered stock so clearly that if she closes her eyes, she can see exactly where it was stocked on the store shelves. Nick seems to be thinking the same thing, sounding strangely nostalgic as he asks, "You don't think there's still time to spice up dinner, do you?"

"Maybe if you guys had gotten here an hour ago," Kim says. "Much longer on the fire and everything is going to be mushy paste. And, again, we don't know if it's safe to use."

"Can we have these tomorrow?" Carmina asks, lifting one of the packaged rations up for approval.

"Not unless they won't last through winter," Kim replies. "Now, I know none of us are excited about five-day stew, but we can't let edible food go to waste just because there's something tastier in front of us." That doesn't do much to rally the troops, unfortunately, and Kim is stuck feeling like the bad guy, so she tries again. "Salt doesn't really go bad, though — I'm sure we can use that."

Nick accepts the terms of the compromise, thankfully, because he's an adult when he needs to be. He redirects his leftover energy towards the sealed bags, pointing Carmina towards the neutral pile. "Okay, you remember how to check whether something's gone bad, right?"

It's been a while since they've relied on store-bought goods, but Carmina hasn't forgotten best-by dates or how to spot discoloration. It's easy enough for them to determine the rations are still good; although the packaging boasts a dubious "fifty-year shelf-life," all of the wrappers are fresh and odorless. They'll have to open one up to be sure, but Kim isn't getting Carmina excited for that this close to dinner. The rice and salt are also easy passes, which means Kim hasn't made too lofty a promise to her family just by offering basic seasoning.

They don't risk breaking any seals quite yet, not without clean containers to hold everything, but it's easy to do a visual check even without opening anything up. Jacob had done his job well — other than the triple-wrapped bottles of liquor, the cache is entirely dry and moisture-free, and everything stored inside was meant to last. That tracks with what Kim knows of the oldest brother. He had been a sharp-minded survivalist; cunning, ruthless, and hard to outwit. He must have been a meticulous planner, putting all of this together, but Kim is struggling to understand what he had expected to do with it all. Like John had said — what good would food be to a man who had planned to survive the apocalypse inside a fully stocked, industrial bunker? And if he didn't trust the Project to save him, then why did he put so much effort into building its militia?

Jacob's motivations are a mystery that Kim isn't interested in solving. She's just glad that, for whatever reason, he'd buried these supplies in particular, and that he'd bothered to share the location with John. Thanks to his opaque planning, Kim can scratch some pipe-dream items off her supply list, and that's good enough for her. Honestly, food had been the last thing she'd suspected John could help them with — she still has trouble believing it's all here in front of her.

With Nick and Carmina studiously inspecting the cache supplies, Kim takes some time to pull the food from the fire. It's the third day they've eaten from this particular batch of stew, and the newest ingredients she put in today are almost a week old. The only thing she can say in favor of their leftovers at this point is that there isn't a lot of it left. She can only hope the salt helps, otherwise she's going to cave on the military rations herself.

Kim brings the pot into the kitchen, then decides it's time to check on John. There's a slim chance that he might have decided to disappear into the hangar, or walked as far as the end of the drive, and Kim isn't going to stand around shouting for him like some kind of  _ Little Home on the Prairie _ character. She gives Nick a thumbs up as she heads for the front door; he doesn't stop her, but the crease in his brow tells her he wants to.

There's a path laid in the dirt between the porch and the truck where John clearly had been pacing, but when Kim comes outside, he's sitting motionless on the porch steps. He doesn't react as Kim comes up next to him, his elbows resting on his knees as he presses his forehead against his palms. She can't tell if he's ignoring her on purpose, or if he's just so deep in thought that he doesn't realize she's there. His turmoil tends to give him tunnel-vision, and he doesn't always notice his surroundings.

Kim doesn't think he's trying to give her the silent treatment, so she gives in first. "Dinner's going to be ready any minute," she tells him. "It's going to be the last tasteless meal for a while, so I hope you're excited."

"Thrilled," he replies, with just enough sarcasm for Kim to trust she isn't interrupting him mid-crisis. She gives him a minute, and sure enough, he eventually drops his hands from his face. Sighing heavily, he addresses the dirt when he speaks. "I take it I'll need a good excuse to get out of eating."

"Maybe if you had eaten breakfast, I'd be more willing to look the other way." Even though she knows John won't take her concern seriously, she can't completely hide it under her exasperation. She tries for his sake, but it's a lost cause. "I don't think you've finished a meal in days."

John closes his eyes briefly. "I haven't been hungry," he says.

Kim wishes he would be more petulant about it. She can handle it when John acts like a child — she's got nine years of raising Carmina under her belt, after all — but John's resignation is a weariness that reflects her own. She doesn't know how to help him with it any more than she knows how to help herself. She can hardly help Nick when he gets like this. She has no idea how to handle John.

Kim cranes her neck as she checks on Nick and Carmina, who are still busy with the supplies. Satisfied that they aren't in any immediate danger, she finally takes a seat next to John on the porch. He still doesn't look at her, his eyes fixed on his hands, but she's hardly surprised. She turns her own gaze to the truck, glinting in the sunset, and tries to follow the tire-tracks backward. She bets the dirt's held their tracks all the way back to the field.

"If it makes you feel better, my appetite has been terrible, too. Sometimes, all I can do is try to keep everything down." She sighs, lamenting mostly to herself, "What I wouldn't give for a Big Mac right now."

That earns her an amused huff from John, which is better than she'd expected. If he's able to tolerate her bad jokes, then at least she can be sure she isn't making things worse.

"At least once we get through our leftovers, we'll be able to start adding those emergency rations into rotation," Kim continues. John probably doesn't care about meal planning, but Kim doesn't need him to be an  _ interested _ sounding board. "And with the extra seasoning, even our leftovers are going to be better than they were." She knows she's pushing it when she tries to relate, but she can't help commenting, "It was lucky that Jacob squirreled so much food away."

"That isn't what he would call it," John heaves. His fingers twist against his jeans. "He was prepared for anything that might happen. Luck had nothing to do with it."

"It was lucky for us," Kim points out. "And, you know... considering how much effort he put into hiding it, I bet he'd be relieved to know that you were able to find it after all this time."

"It doesn't matter what he'd think. He's dead."

John takes a sharp breath after he spits the comment out and Kim watches the regret bloom in real time, his scowl deepening as he stares at the dirt. Sometimes, she suspects he beats himself up like this because they refuse to do it for him. She wishes he would stop, already. It used to annoy her, but lately, it's only managed to make her feel terribly sad.

"Maybe it doesn't matter to him, but it might make  _ you _ feel better."

John barks out a noise that hardly resembles a laugh. "Nothing is going to make me  _ feel better _ ," he snaps, his anger flaring up and dissipating too abruptly for him to keep hold of it. All it leaves behind is resignation. "It doesn't matter. He'll just... My nightmares will latch on to anything. Jacob will never be happy in them." He sighs, burying his hands in his hair, twisting his fingers as though he might pull clumps out by the root. "Nothing I do helps. I just want it to  _ stop _ ."

Kim wishes she had a solution for him, but she has nothing besides a lame suggestion to get more rest. That clearly hasn't worked for any of them, let alone John, who treats his nightmares like physical intruders instead of figments of his imagination. She doesn't know what they do to haunt him so badly, and she isn't sure she's ready to learn. She's only just now starting to get used to him as a person — she's not ready to unpack all of his damage.

John sighs and rubs his temples. "I knew Jacob didn't believe," he admits. "Not in the religious doctrine, anyway. But I didn't know that he had... planned  _ around _ it. If I'd known, then maybe..."

John trails off, and Kim hums sympathetically after he fails to pick back up. Most of John's trauma is bespoke to him and him alone, but this is something that any survivor would be able to commiserate with. "Hindsight really does suck," she says. "Trust me, you're not the only one wondering what could've gone differently."

Usually, John is almost impossible to console, but it seems like the day has worn the fight right out of him. He only shakes his head miserably at her attempt to sympathize. "It wouldn't have been any better," he mutters. "It would only have been a different kind of worse."

"Maybe," Kim supposes, although she's not entirely convinced. There were plenty of points between the Project's arrival and the Collapse where a split in leadership would have benefited everybody. She's thought about it before now, remembering rare moments when she'd thought she'd seen something beneath the veneer of otherwise devout believers. She's wondered more than once what might've happened, if only they had convinced the right person to turn their back. God, she's hypothesized about a thousand missed opportunities left in that half-decade. There are a million ways things could have turned out better for even just one more person.

At last, Kim surrenders her side of the conversation — or what's left of it, anyway. "Well, for whatever it's worth, you've done us a big favor, and we're not going to let it go to waste. And a lot of people are going to benefit from your hard work."

John takes a deep, unhappy breath. "Yes," he says. He opens his mouth to soften the word with something else, something to hide the fact that he still depends on blind acceptance when overwhelmed, but he can't seem to come up with anything.

Kim doesn't need an excuse. She puts a hand on his shoulder, feeling him tense under her gentle grip, anticipating more than simple reassurance. It offended her at first, how often he seemed to expect them to be violent with him. The idea that he thought either of them were capable of the same awfulness as the cult had pissed her off. But nowadays, she's come to accept that it's simply hardwiring left over from before. She's not sure there's anything to be done about it at this point.

There are no platitudes she can offer him that wouldn't sound insincere, so she relies on facts. "When you're ready, come inside and try to eat something. You look like you wore yourself out."

John's tension slowly ebbs. "I... may have overdone it," he admits somewhat reluctantly, which tells Kim that he  _ definitely _ overdid it. He scrubs his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. "I needed to know I was right. I... needed  _ him _ to know I hadn't forgotten."

So much for Jacob being too dead to care about. Despite everything, Kim can't help but sympathize. She feels his remorse in her own way whenever she thinks about her parents, and she knows that everybody carries something like that with them these days. She might not be haunted by her parents the way John is, but she thinks she can understand his sorrow. It might be the only thing about him she really gets.

"That's okay," she tells him, because it is, and somebody should tell him as much. "But you can't let it get in the way of taking care of yourself."

He nods, but Kim knows he doesn't believe her. He treats every attempt to reassure him as empty platitudes — not that she can blame him, really. But sometimes, like right now, she wonders if he would be less inclined to beat himself up so much if they'd just punished him the way he'd wanted from the start. It's just her exasperation talking, frustrated by his continued misery. John needs time, just like the rest of them, and beating him up ten months ago would only have made things worse.

A loud thud interrupts them, followed immediately by Carmina shouting, " _ Ow _ !" Nick starts to laugh, which keeps Kim from getting particularly worried about Carmina's safety, but she still gets up to investigate. John doesn't follow, although she catches him turning his head to watch her as she heads inside.

Nick, still seated at the table, laughs at their daughter as she lies sprawled back on the ground, her feet still guiltily stuck in the barrel.

"Told you, you're too big! No way you'd fit."

"I had to  _ try _ ," Carmina grumbles as she kicks her way out of the barrel.

" _ Why _ ?" Kim laughs.

"I dunno, I just had to!"

"Too bad I don't have a blow-torch," Nick laments. "We could've put some eye-holes in it for you, like a helmet. Maybe then you'd be able to ride around in the truck-bed without your mom getting all worked up."

Carmina gasps. " _ Really _ ?"

Kim is quick to smother that particular idea. " _ No _ ," she cuts in, trying not to laugh at the mental image that her husband's conjured up. She tries to guilt Nick with an exasperated glance, but the bastard doesn't look even remotely repentant about suggesting armor to their child. "There has to be a better use for it than that. Anyway, armored or not, I don't want you to get thrown out of the back of a moving vehicle! I don't know why that's so unreasonable."

Carmina opens her mouth to argue the point, but she's abruptly distracted as she glances into the barrel. Rearranging her legs to sit on her knees, she pulls the barrel towards her. Kim would write it off if it weren't for Carmina's obvious confusion as she peers inside.

"There's more stuff in here," she reveals, tipping the barrel upright. She's uncharacteristically uneasy as she mentions, "Um, I think it's cult stuff..."

Kim is the first one to investigate, peering down into what she'd thought was an empty cache. She finds a circular metal disk wedged catty-corner into the barrel, revealing a hidden compartment. Reaching past the false bottom, Kim finds some black fabric and a box. She figures out the tee-shirts from the tags inside the collars of the factory-starched fabric, but hesitates to investigate the rest. The other packages stored away had been factory-sealed and clearly labeled cardboard boxes; there was no hiding what was in those. This, on the other hand, is a wooden cigar box with no seals, the Eden's Gate cross etched elaborately into the lid.

"Uh, John?" Nick calls as Kim sets the box down on top of the shirts. She wonders if she should open it, or if it might be some kind of trap. Nick looks deeply distrusting as he stares at the emblem and repeats louder, "John?"

John is more confused than any of them when he enters the scene. He scowls as soon as he sees the box sitting on the table, which would be hard to miss even without Nick gesturing widely towards it. "Where did you find that?" he asks, looking from Nick to Carmina as if they might have different stories to give him.

"Where do you think, Mars?" Nick exclaims, exasperated. "You wanna tell me what's inside?"

"I don't  _ know _ ," John grits out, "I haven't  _ looked _ ."

But it's clear from his expression that he has an idea of what they're dealing with. He crosses the room and hovers momentarily in front of the box, flipping the lid open before Kim can decide if that's a good idea. It could be a bomb. It could have a tripwire. She doesn't want her home ruined by Bliss all over again!

Of course, nothing happens. Kim supposes that if it had been a trap, Carmina would have set it off by climbing on top of it. The reality is much less ominous than she could have expected. She hovers near John as he pulls a clean moleskin journal out, watching him flip through the blank pages before dismissing it. He's slower to write off the folded mass of paper that he takes out next, although he doesn't examine it right away. Kim doesn't need him to unfold it to see the topography lines and highway markers printed on it.

"An empty journal, a map, and..."

John scowls at the twenty or so bullets that rattle around at the bottom of the cigar box. They can't be any different from the rest of the ammunition, but for some reason, the sight of them triggers a sense of dread in Kim. After all, what kind of ammunition would Jacob have thought needed to be secreted away? It can't be good. It can't possibly be  _ safe _ .

"Ah," John says. Kim can't say for sure, but he seems almost disappointed.

"What are they?" Nick asks.

"Bullets we infused with Bliss." John tilts the box, examining the ammunition as best he can without touching it. Kim can't help but want to snatch Carmina away, but they're past the point of hiding these things from her. She has a right to understand just how dangerous the cult was. But there's also a lingering fear that somehow, Carmina might be affected by that god-awful drug, even if it's from ten-year-old bullets.

"You don't have to worry," John says. He doesn't need to look up for Kim to know he's talking to her. "The drug would be inert by now."

"What should we do with them, then?" Nick asks.

"Destroy them," John replies honestly. "If not that, then... store them away. We don't need them, but..."

"But it would be stupid to throw away good ammunition," Kim finishes as John trails off.

"Exactly."

None of them make a move to take either action. Kim supposes that the bullets aren't hurting anyone right now, just sitting there, and it seems like Carmina is more interested in the map than the ammunition. She's trying and failing to peek at the folded pages without undoing the whole mess. They didn't have a map in the bunker, which means that this will be Carmina's first chance to see her home spread out as a whole.

"Here, let me," Kim tells her daughter. Nick takes her cue, clearing a space on the table for her as she picks up the map. All eyes are on the accordion folds as they unravel, revealing more and more of the county. Black stars dot locations Kim remembers, like Lorna's and Rae Rae's, and circled points of nothing are marked in the middle of empty fields and mountain road turnoffs. The key is neatly printed in the upper left corner; beneath it is a uniform list of numbers, most likely coordinates, written briskly in red ink.

Even without the key, Kim thinks she understands the various marks around the map. Spread out in front of them, she can see double circles around power boxes, and she spots a few other locations with the same notation. Stars are placed next to several prominent people's homes, including their own. There are other things, too — little ink drawings of wolves, bears and deer in spots across the map. A few lakes have the names of fish written over them in the same blocky letters as the food packaging; the river bend nearest to their home has the word  _ BASS _ written neatly along the bend.

Standing next to Kim, staring down at the map, John finally says, "This doesn't make any sense."

Nick opens his mouth to respond, probably with something sarcastic, but he thinks better of it and goes a different route. "Why would he hide this stuff?" he asks. "I mean, I get the bullets, I guess... but hiding the map seems weird."

John scowls at the box in his hands, closing the lid vengefully. "This is what the cache  _ should _ have been," he says. "It should have  _ more _ of this — more weapons, more maps, more  _ intel _ . What about all of the blueprints we'd drawn up for housing? Instructions on how to reconnect the power grid, or the deeds to prove we owned the land —  _ that _ would help, no matter what you believed! We were prepared for an apocalypse, but — where is it all? Sugar and rice and cigarettes aren't  _ helping _ anybody!"

Kim can't blame John for getting upset, although she wishes he wouldn't shout around Carmina. Knowing that Jacob had planned for the possibility of the Project not being around is one thing, but it must be particularly rough to see obvious signs of a long-forgotten plan. Especially one that John hadn't been told anything about, with only a few disjointed clues left for him to piece back together.

To her surprise, it's Nick who comes to John's rescue, standing to draw John's attention before he completely spirals. "Come on, that's not true. You know we need food more than anything else." He gestures towards the open map. "Besides, there are plenty of other spots we can check. And now we know what we're looking for, right?"

John sighs heavily. "Yes," he agrees.

"Okay," Nick continues, "And now we've got rations and a tent to take with us, so we don't go through another long day like today. Right?"

John rolls his eyes. It's no secret that he hates it when they treat him like a child, but there's not enough outrage left in him to get angry about it. Instead, he drops his eyes to the ground and agrees with a despondent, "Yes."

"So, alright, maybe we aren't going to learn how to reconnect the power grid, or how to build a solar water purifier, or whatever. But at least we know we're not going to struggle through winter. Neither is Grace, or the gang, or the town."

"I know," John sighs. "I know." He drops the box onto the table, grimacing at the sound it makes. "The map alone is worth all of today's effort." He doesn't look convinced, but Kim can appreciate his almost-apology for what it is.

Carmina, who has been examining the map to avoid John's outburst, finally sees an opening to speak up. "Um... Where is our house?" she asks.

Nick squints over the map, trying to pinpoint the spot from his upside-down vantage point. Neither he nor Kim are quick enough to answer, though, as John reaches out and taps his finger against one of the black stars in the lower-left corner. He doesn't even have to look — he clearly memorized their location a long time ago.

"Here," he says.

"Oh, good," Nick sighs, "We got a star."

"It meant you had something useful that you weren't willing to give up." John's finger drags across the paper to the label on the river. "But I don't understand why he marked fishing spots. And hunting locations. And these..." He taps the red numbers. Kim spots a few red dots on the map, hopefully corresponding to the coordinates, but they seem to be in random locations. Whatever logic the Project was using, Kim can't make it out.

"I don't know what any of these are," John says. His voice lacks the anger from moments ago, replaced by a growing fascination with the mysterious notations. "They're all up in the mountains, so I think... Well, except...."

He moves around Carmina, who watches him with wide eyes as he seems to forget she's standing right next to him. John's given her more attention in the last hour than he has this entire year, but it figures that his indifference to her is what's sticking out.

"This one," he says, tapping a red dot near the old Eden's Gate compound. "This might be the furthest south... No, wait. This one." He moves his attention again, indicating another red spot closer to town.

"Are they more barrels?" Carmina asks.

John is momentarily startled to find Carmina right beside him, but he doesn't immediately leap away to put some distance back. Mostly because doing so would send him right into Kim's personal space. "It could be," he admits, only letting Carmina's input rattle him for a second before he turns his attention back to the map. "They must have been late additions. But... I didn't hear anything about these, and I don't remember seeing them on other maps. If they were for the Project, I would have found out about them eventually."

"Wouldn't they have told you upfront?" Nick asks, surprised when John chuckles in response.

"There were plenty of things I had to learn second-hand. There are probably more secrets I never learned at all. But — this cache was buried  _ weeks _ before the Reaping. We kept our maps updated almost daily, but I don't remember either of these being marked. And there's one at the compound... I would remember emergency supplies being stored at the church."

Carmina stands on the opposite side of John from Kim, watching his hand move as he talks. Seeing the two of them side-by-side should probably upset Kim. She should be worried about her daughter putting too much trust in John — even if he  _ wants _ to do the right thing now, he doesn't always understand what the right thing might be, and Carmina is at an impressionable age. If John says or does something wrong, he could shift Carmina's entire worldview.

In reality, though, Kim doesn't particularly mind. John is clearly not comfortable around Carmina, even though her lukewarm interest in him is hardly a threat, and he's highly cautious when he talks to her. Whether it's because Carmina is Nick's kid, or because he's bad with kids in general, Kim doesn't know. All she knows is that John is always careful with his words when Carmina is around.

"Stars are people's homes, right?" Carmina asks. "What about crosses?"

John frowns, tearing his eyes away from the mystery coordinates long enough to look where Carmina is pointing. "Shrines," he tells her. He points out a few more symbols, although it's clear he's doing it to keep her from asking him more questions. "Triangles are silos. Circles are established caches. Unfilled squares are locations we wanted. Filled squares are places we owned."

Carmina frowns at the map. "There are a lot of those."

Nick clears his throat loudly, and John immediately opens his mouth to apologize. Nick doesn't seem to need it, though, scratching at his chin as he tells Carmina, "The cult stole a lot of property right from underneath the real owners. They didn't actually own any of it. They just lied, and pretended."

John frowns, but he makes no effort to defend the cult one way or another. "And now the Project holds none of it," he says, gesturing at the map. "You could take it all back. Nobody will be there to stop you."

"Yeah, assuming any of it is still useful."

"We're one-for-one so far," Kim points out. Nick purses his lips at her taking John's side, but  _ he's _ the one who suggested armoring up Carmina earlier — he can deal with a little payback. "Besides, I think we could all use a little direction right now. Something to work towards beyond surviving day-to-day."

"There could still be useful intelligence stored away," John says. "Jacob had plans for a multitude of projects we could make use of. The only problem I can see is that Joseph might have a similar map. We may have to compete with him for resources."

"From what I've heard, they've been keeping to themselves. Something about Mennonites with bows and arrows, I don't know." Nick waves a hand dismissively over the map. "If we can use cult resources against Joseph, then I'm all for it."

"That makes two of us," John agrees.

Kim's eyes rove across the map, following the river eastward. The cattle ranch is marked by a star and a cross, but there isn't much there to see along the southern border; for whatever reason, the cult focused most of their resources on the northern half of the valley. It isn't until the now-jungles of the Henbane's territory that more outposts pop up, although she can't imagine any of them are used now. According to what's left of the rumor mill, the cult has mostly remained on what used to be Dutch's island. So far, they haven't seemed interested in making contact with outsiders, much less trying to make amends — if John and Nick  _ do _ go out and encounter some cultists, she can't know how it will turn out. They seem to want to keep to themselves — but how long can that possibly last?

It's a worry that she'll have to deal with later. She's already anxious enough for the present; she doesn't need to add future paranoia to the mix. For now, she can focus on appreciating the stark benefits laid out on the table in front of her. Even if Joseph has his own map, he doesn't have gasoline, or working vehicles, or  _ guns _ . He doesn't have radio communication across the entire county, whereas monopolizing the resources will only take Kim a few quick calls. Anything the cult tries to pull off will have to be done much more slowly, and with Joseph being in control of it all. It's a strange way for the tables to turn, but Kim can't say she doesn't like the satisfaction it brings, knowing that they're at least one step ahead of the Project. It only took, what, nine years?

"Well, damn, John," Nick says at last, "Way to set the bar high for next time."

"Don't expect more miracles," John replies, lifting one hand neutrally. But there's something in his expression, a sort of awkward bashfulness, that reminds Kim of Nick's own humble pride. Kim's surprised to find that humility is a good fit for John. It's better than the cold arrogance he used to display, that's for sure. Who knows — maybe in a few years, it won't take dragging him through one long, emotionally-draining day to get him to open up. If they're lucky, it won't take that long, but knowing John, he'll fight it every step of the way.

That's okay, though. Kim's got more than enough patience to wait him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhh feels good man, love seeing another story actually completed
> 
> props go to the mountain goats for the title of this fic, which i stole from a new song called "The Last Place I Saw You Alive" -- a sad song that i didn't realize resonated with this fic until late at night. (another good fc5 song from that album is "as many candles as possible" -- definitely gives me mercy vibes but i think it applies to a lot of the fc themes lol)
> 
> i hope you guys enjoyed kim and john hanging out :) hopefully they will inspire more, because it was a lot of fun to write. umm i won't write about carmina's 9th birthday (which will be happening like... two weeks after this fic ends? idk, something like that, ubisoft didn't give me dates so i'm making shit up!!!!) but we'll talk about it in the one-shot i'm gonna post next. then there's some oc-based stuff i want to put out (it's easier to have ocs be mad at john b/c i actually want npcs to interact with him lol). i can feel a bigger story hidden beneath all the crap in this series, but i'm not quite sure what it is yet!!! we'll see, i'm sure it'll be good
> 
> anyway, thank you guys so much for reading! i appreciate you all so much. mercy is such a fun universe for me to play in and i'm so thrilled to know other people are enjoying the mess i'm making!! if you haven't already, feel free to hit me up on my tumblr, @[foxtophat](https://foxtophat.tumblr.com/), if you want!!!! no pressure, life is already too full of that
> 
> i would love to hear from you! comments, likes, kudos, reblogs, off-hand comments to your firends are all amazing ways to remind my short-term memory that you had a good time with me! otherwise, i hope you enjoyed, and i hope to see you around next time :)
> 
> (PS: there is a 5% chance that my edits might have removed a vital sentence. if that happened, let me know asap so i can fix it!!! idk what happened last night but i had to rewrite like a whole paragraph b/c it disappeared mid-edit. that's life i guess!)


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